


Remnant

by oldglory



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Death, Dubious Consent, Evil America, F/M, M/M, OC's - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalyptic, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:01:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldglory/pseuds/oldglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its personification murdered, London flys the Star-Spangled Banner. There is no Germany, no Canada, no China. No Britain.</p><p>There is only Gaia, and his many children, who obey him unquestioningly. </p><p>But one of them is different. One of them <strong><em>remembers</em></strong>.</p><p> <em>In which America is lost. Who could pull him from the darkness, but the first to show him light?</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Remnant

**Author's Note:**

> A story in which America succumbs to his potential and takes over the world, raising children from the ashes of his fellow nations to serve as new representatives.
> 
> One, however, is not quite like the rest...

The girl picks her way across the ruins, ignoring the stares of the people around her.

Their once-great city has finally fallen, reduced to piles of smoking debris and ash, and even now she is forced to step over piles of burnt remains. The smell, though familiar, makes her wrinkle her nose. Victory, as sweet as it is, cannot quite rid the stench of death from her nostrils.

Nor can it drown the silence.

As she trudges toward her destination, the conquered appear slowly from their hiding places, watching her. They sense that she is different, that she is _more_ , and they look at her with varying degrees of hate and fear. Some shift restlessly, as though they want to attack, but the girl is not worried.

These people are broken, _defeated_ , and they can do nothing to her, for she carries the blood of their conqueror in her veins.

_This is the beginning of a new age, for all of you._

Yes, these people...they should be _grateful._ Father had been merciful, had spared them the hell they were so determined to suffer...But as the girl locks eyes with a thin young boy clutching tightly to his mother, she tastes something sour. Clutching her bundle in her hand, she turns away. There, up ahead, is her goal.

The girl adjusts her breathing mask and treks forward with renewed determination. There is ash beneath her feet where grass used to be, and now before her is a great expanse of rubble and wreckage. The radiation levels are highest here, the smoke and fire thickest. Behind her, the conquered watch. They dare not venture further.

Stepping forward, she looks around. The devastation is worst, here. Where an ancient structure once stood - as the heart of this place - only smoking rubble remains. Something white catches her eye.

The girl's heart beats faster as she approaches it, lying near the very center of the ruin. Her father's words echo loudly in her mind, until the pumping of her blood is near deafening in her ears. How wild he had looked as he said them, his face splattered with blood, his knife and hands dripping with it.

_"Be careful with this one, Abigail. If you find anything - anything - that suggests he isn't mine..."_

Swallowing back bile, she pauses to regain herself. That Father would ask her to do such a thing...

Well.

She may not like what this mission entails, but she is, above all, a loyal daughter, and she will do as she was told. He made it very clear how important this was. Biting her lip, the girl stops before the splash of white. Her heart is beating like a jackhammer in her chest. The body at her feet is tiny and still, lying silent and curled on its side. Kneeling, she tries to get a closer look, but the smoke is thick enough here that she can hardly see a thing.

_What should I do?_

She thinks for a moment, then unwraps the bundle she carries with trembling hands.

 _Just in case,_ she assures herself. The handle of the knife is a cool anchor in the sudden tumult of her thoughts. With a shaky breath, Abigail Jones lays a cautious hand on the little body.

 _Please,_ she thinks, turning it onto its back. _Please be normal. Please be ours._

Her hand tightens around the knife. _I don't want to do this._

As she looks on, tense, the smoke around them lightens. The little one is clearer now; Abigail's mouth falls open at the sight of him.

Plump and pale and beautiful, the boy is undoubtedly a son of Gaia, what with his long lashes, full lips, and wheat-colored hair - the spitting image of father, himself.

Relieved - _enraptured_ \- Abigail gathers the boy in her arms. He wears the soft white gown of a Newborn, and as his little head lolls against her breast, she relaxes. The knife falls from her hand. How could she have ever thought to use it on the little angel in her arms, her own flesh and blood - and Father's, too?

Humming softly, something warm blooms in her chest.

_Brother._

He is the newest addition to their family, and Father - Father will welcome him with open arms. She can just imagine the look on his face when they arrive - expectant and adoring and warm...

Abigail's thoughts are interrupted when the boy stirs. His eyelids flutter open, revealing large eyes that lock immediately onto hers. Staring back, Abigail goes white. She is abruptly reminded of a day long ago, when she was still small enough to sit in Father's lap. He had held her protectively as he stared down the man across the desk, a man who looked at them with such contempt and sadness in his emerald eyes that she could not stand to hold his gaze.

_"You're a fool."_

And now - now those same eyes look up at her, but they are curious and clear, not old and forlorn. The knife lies at her feet.

_"Be careful with this one, Abigail. If you find anything - anything - that suggests it isn't mine, then you will destroy it as I did its predecessor..."_

_Cut out its heart and burn it._

Tears are gathering in her eyes now, and her hands tremble. She is loyal, a loyal daughter. She has seen war and horror and death, has spilled more blood with her own two hands than she cares to remember, but -

 _Why,_ she moans internally, her lip wobbling. _Why did you have to have his eyes, when you were perfect in all other ways...?_

Forcing back a sob - she doesn't want to do this, isn't sure if she can - Abigail moves to grab the knife. A voice stops her.

"Sister," the boy mumurs, a tiny hand lifting to touch her face. At the contact, a familiar warmth blooms in her chest, and in her mind she sees it, the bond that connects them. It runs deeper than blood and flesh, an intricate web that includes all their other siblings across the world - though the line that connects him is strange, slightly distorted - and at the feel of it Abigail bursts into tears.

 _I can't do it_ , she thinks, because this is her brother - eye-color be damned.

Father...Father will see him, and then he'll understand. He will forgive her weakness. He must.

Calming a little, Abigail lowers her head and kisses the little one on his cheek, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

"You are Andrew," she whispers, as he squirms out of her arms, touching the ground with unsteady feet. "Andrew Jones."

It is the name Father chose for him. As she has for all the siblings that came before him, Abigail touches his face, allowing their bond to swell, and says, "You are a son of Gaia."

The boy nods - how solemn he is - and looks around at the wreckage.

"What is this place?" he asks, hardly stumbling over his words.

Taking his hand, Christine follows his gaze. Where once a great palace stood, only rubble and wreckage remain. Faint whispers of the past still peek out at her from the ruins, and something like sadness touches her heart. She has read much about this place, it's grandeur and history. She wishes Father had not had to destroy it.

"It was...a place fit for a queen," she murmurs, turning away. The helicopter is waiting for them. It's going to be dark, soon.

"C'mon," she urges the boy, who has yet to look away from the ruins. "I'll show you your home."

Gently, she tugs him away. Reluctantly, the boy follows.

\-------------------------------------------------

Andrew Jones is different.

He knows this, but he is not quite certain _how_.

When he looks in the mirror, he sees a relatively normal personification staring back at him. Unruly blond hair, a thin face, green eyes - he is not particularly stunning, but he wouldn't call himself hideous, either, which is why he cannot understand when the servants shoot him such scathing looks, as though he has committed some grave offense towards them. But then, humans in general are never very kind to him. Andrew's learned well to stay away.

He has lived for thirty years, and yet his body is that of a particularly underfed sixteen-year old. Perhaps it is for this reason that the servants do not speak to him, nor the guards posted around the perimeter of his house. He is not allowed to leave the grounds, and thus has never seen the land he is supposed to represent. His days are filled with solitude, faded books and gray skies. He is lonely.

Abigail, his older sister, is his only real comfort - a living, breathing journal in which he confides his deepest dreams.

And he does dream. Too much, if the humans are to be believed. Their whispers hurt him, but he has learned to escape the coldness of the house through the worlds within his books; there, only adventures await him, battles with demons and dragons, along with the most elegant parties, and all with the turn of a page...

Lately, though, he has grown bored of such stories. He has read them all over and over again for nearing two decades, until the tales are as faded to him as the covers with which they are bound. He wants more.

Andrew wants to go outside.

More than that, he wants to do as his sister does, and help their father. He has lost count of the number of times she has walked through the doorway splattered with another's blood, her back straight but her eyes downcast. Abigail doesn't like it when he sees her like this, likes it even less when he asks questions, and so Andrew has learned to wait patiently as she washes up, before coming to sit with him.

It used to be that she would tell him stories about such encounters, how fools dared to speak against Father and she was sent to deal with them. Dissenters are especially common in the land he represents, and Andrew would listen with mingled awe and guilt as she relayed how she crushed their resistance.

"It's okay," she used to say, kissing his forehead, as though she sensed his shame. "Fools are universal. They have nothing to do with you. And one day, you'll be able to crush them, yourself."

Andrew doesn't want to crush them, necessarily, but he wants even less for his sister to have to carry such a burden. Though she believes herself good at hiding it, Andrew knows Abigail as well as she does him, and has sensed how heavily killing people weighs on her, now.

He wants to help. If that means taking the burden upon himself - dyeing his own hands red - then he will gladly accept it.

But Abigail will say no. She always says no. _It's too dangerous, you're not ready, yet, you haven't been trained -_

The answer is always 'no.'

He hasn't seen her in weeks, and, despite the frustration her refusal brings him, Andrew feels the ache of her absence like physical pain. He is so very _bored_. Abigail, above all things and others, brings him happiness.

She never fails to entertain him with her stories, or make him laugh with all the silly things she does, or alleviate the loneliness that always creeps in when she's gone...

So, with her away on business and absolutely nothing to do, Andrew has taken to sleeping. He naps and naps - and wanders blearily around the house - and naps some more. His sleepiness is not helped by the gray that covers the world, the earth made mute and dreary with the presence of rain...

It's always raining, in his land.

A while back, he fell asleep and dreamed of a devil freshly freed and a young man sobbing brokenly. Andrew woke tense and sweating to find Abigail hunched over him, her arms a steel cage as she murmured things to calm him. He would not speak of it afterwards, but months later he still sees it in his mind - a sinister shadow falling over a face twisted with suffering. With defeat, and pain, and sorrow.

Andrew hates those kind of dreams, all hazy and disjointed. They seem the most real to him.

 _"Mad,"_ the humans whisper, as they clean his floors and neatly rearrange his many books. Thoughtfully, he looks at his hands.

_Am I?_

Clutching his book tighter, Andrew surmises that he could be.

He considers asking Abigail the next time she comes, but she is far too predictable in her answers.

"You're special, Andy," she will say, her blue eyes soft and sad. Abigail always looks sad when she looks at him. When he was little, he would ask her about it, but all she ever answered with was: "Don't worry, little brother," before smoothly moving on to another subject.

She's keeping something from him, he's old enough to know this now, but Andrew does not press. He trusts Abigail, and if he needs to know whatever it is she is hiding, then she will tell him. Eventually.

"Andy," a voice says from behind him.

He looks up from where he is perched by the window, a thrill shooting through him.

Speak of the devil.

Christine is standing in the doorway, watching him, and he can tell from one look at her carefully blank face that something is wrong.

Andrew lowers the book he was not really reading.

"Abigail. I wasn't expecting you."

This is the part where a grin splits her face and she pulls him into a hug, booming something about being siblings and not needing to announce her presence, but instead Abigail simply stands there, silent. Her face, normally bright with her myriad expressions, is drawn and pale.

Tilting his head, Andrew stands. Abigail says nothing as he approaches. Stopping just before her, Andrew looks into her eyes and sees that she is scared.

"What's wrong?" he asks softly, taking her hands in his. They are cold. "Abby?"

She says nothing, his sister, who is always laughing and smiling and talking, talking, talking. It unsettles him greatly, but Andrew tries his best to keep his expression placid as he searches her face.

Abigail seems to be doing the same, her cerulean eyes traveling carefully over his cheeks and his nose and his hair, resting finally on his eyes.

"He..." She pauses, her hands trembling. A minute passes, and then she continues, "It's finally happening. He's - he's coming to see you. At last..."

"Who?" Andrew whispers, though from Abigail's demeanor he already knows.

"Father," she breathes, and there are tears in her eyes. They are not from joy. "Gaia."

Andrew looks at her, dumbfounded. Something like excitement flutters in his stomach, and his throat is clogged suddenly with an emotion not unlike terror. For a moment he cannot speak, and abruptly his mind is filled with a thousand nights in which he'd heard that name murmured reverently, fearfully -

Gaia.

\----------------------------

" _He is everything to us," Abigail whispered, her eyes shining brightly in the dark. They were huddled together on his bed, their foreheads pressed together, and Andrew listened in awe as she told him stories of their progenitor, of his greatness._

_"Will I ever meet him?" he asked, as lightning flashed and thunder roared outside his window._

_Abigail's smile faltered, just for a second, before she answered: "Yes, of course. He just...Father's been very busy, lately. There are still those who would oppose us - who deny Father's power..."_

_"Who?" Andrew asked, both curious and afraid for these men._

_Abigail paused. She looked into Andrew's eyes, as she so often did during her long silences. Andrew looked back, though it was harder when they were so close to each other. Abigail had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, and this close he thought he might fall into them. He watched the hues darken as she seemed to decide something._

_"Evil beings," Abigail said slowly, averting her gaze. She now looked toward the window, at the frenzy outside._

_"Evil," she whispered again, and there was something in those eyes of hers - something Andrew knew she didn't mean for him to see._

_"And Father's enemies are ours."_

\--------------------------------------

"Abigail?"

Abigail is lying on his bed, running her fingers through the soft fur of the many stuffed animals she's brought him over the years. Andrew shifts nervously.

Her eyes are dry, now, but she is still worryingly somber, her smiles weak and forced whenever she tries to convince him nothing is wrong - that she wasn't just on the verge of tears.

 _But why?_ he wonders, lying down opposite her. They lay on their sides, facing each other; he looks at Abigail and suddenly Abigail is looking back at him. He lays his left hand on the bed between them, and after a long moment Abigail takes it, until their fingers are entwined and the bond burns between them; the connection that marks them as flesh and blood, Gaia's own.

_Why do you look so scared?_

"Tomorrow evening," Abigail says suddenly, pulling him from his thoughts.

"What?"

"Father will arrive tomorrow evening," she pauses. "And the rest of our brothers and sisters."

For the second time today, Andrew finds himself speechless. Abigail has told him all about their family and their many brothers and sisters, but he has never met any of them. That he is finally going to, along with seeing father for the first time, is suddenly too much. Breathing shakily, he rests his forehead against Abigail and breathes in the scents of her land.

The land she represents, he corrects himself.

Frowning a little, Andrew closes his eyes. The excitement is dying down within him. Now dread bubbles in the pit of his stomach, a sudden, niggling worry that furrows his brow and stiffens his muscles.

In his mind, he sees the nation Abigail describes so often: tall and imposing and magnificent, with hair like gold and eyes that could at once be as enthralling as the skies and as frightening as the apex of a storm.

 _Father is kind and generous to those who obey him_ , Abigail used to say, when he was still small enough to be gathered in her lap. _As his children, we are precious to him._

_But don't be mistaken, Andrew. Should any of us betray his Dream..._

The Dream. Andrew has heard that mentioned in the tales Abigail tells of him of Gaia, but he is still not sure what it is. Only that it makes Abigail sad, makes her mouth quirk downwards and her eyes dim. It used to be that she shook with delight, her words fervent whenever she spoke of it to him, but somewhere, somehow, that changed. Tightening his grip around her hand, he chews his lip.

He wants to ask her. Andrew wants to ask her so many things; like why, in his thirty years of existence, Father is only just visiting him for the first time - or why Abigail is acting like a criminal who's about to be caught - or why she sometimes looks so _sad_ when she looks at him -

"Don't worry, Andrew," Abigail says softly.

But he does, he does - and now there are a million questions burning at the tip of his tongue like fire, each one begging to be spilled, and as Andrew looks into clear blue eyes he thinks he might ask her -

"Okay," he says quietly instead.

He has never been one to press.

\-----------------------------------

Once the servants learn of Father's impending arrival, they move about the house with a frenzy bordering on panic. Abigail stands in the center of the chaos, guiding and directing their movements, greeting absently the flood of strangers who pour into the house, chattering.

"Decorators," she tells Andrew, when he asks. "They're here to prepare things for Father's arrival."

Andrew watches them nervously, wondering why so many are needed in the first place. The house is always impeccably clean; he hardly ever leaves his room. He's surprised the guards - situated around the perimeter of the house - let so many in...

One of the strangers comes up behind him, then. Andrew jumps, instinctively clinging to Abigail's arm. She laughs.

"Don't worry, baby brother," she says, and he is soothed by the familiar joviality in her tone. "This is Ava. She'll be providing your outfit for tomorrow."

"A pleasure," the woman says softly, studying Andrew with cool brown eyes. Her faint accent tells him she's from the land he represents, and he looks back at her warily. Andrew knows from experience that it is his own people he needs to be most cautious around; they throw him the nastiest glares, treat him the worst, hate him the fiercest.

Several have attempted to end his life over the years, until he was finally prohibited from leaving the grounds at all. Not that they ever really ventured out that much in the first place. Abigail has always been very protective of him. Andrew remembers questioning her after the latest attempt on his life - _why do they hate me so much? what have I done to them?_ \- tears drying on his face. She had looked him so sadly, hugged him tightly, and said nothing.

"Abigail," he says.

"It's alright," his sister whispers, as though reading his mind. She runs her fingers through his hair. At her touch, the bond between them flares, and Andrew relaxes, despite himself. He closes his eyes briefly, leaning into the contact. When he opens them again, however, it is to see Abigail staring at the woman with an expression he's only ever seen directed at the servants, her face cold and hard.

There is a warning in her gaze, and it is clear from the woman's swallow that she understands, whatever it is.

"She won't hurt you," Abigail continues, looking back down at Andrew, and it is remarkable how quickly her countenance changes. She is his older sister again, her eyes soft and her smile warm.

"You've gotta be presentable for Father's arrival," she says, stepping away from him. "Ava here has your outfit ready. I want you to go and try it on, okay?"

"Okay," Andrew mumbles, trying not to flinch as Ava nears him again. She asks him where his room is and he leads her there, doing his best to appear unwary.

_Abigail would never let any harm come to me..._

They enter the room, Andrew leaving the door open, and the woman looks around mutely.

"Is...is that what I'm wearing?" he points at the suit wrapped in plastic hanging over her arm.

"Oh - yes," the woman starts, as if shaken from deep thought. She speaks as all his people speak - kind of like Abigail, but not really. Andrew can never place the accent, though it stirs something deep within him, and he tilts his head unconsciously as he studies her.

"Shall we begin?" Ava says after a moment, clearly uncomfortable.

Andrew nods hesitantly, and the next fifteen minutes or so are not so bad. The woman is polite, if not exactly pleasant, and her hands are gentle as they smooth down the lapels of the tailored suit and run carefully through his wheat blonde locks.

She stands with him in front of the mirror on the far wall of his room, her fingers traveling down his shoulders and arms. He tries to hide his discomfort at the liberties she is taking with his person, but fails.

 _She's just preparing me for tomorrow_ , he tells himself. But there is...a hunger in Ava' s face that wasn't there before, a greediness to the way her hands roam his body. It's not sexual - Andrew would've pushed her away if he felt that were the case. The expression she wears is more like fascination. And because no one has ever been fascinated with him before, he allows it.

"You look dashing," she says softly, something odd in her eyes.

"Thank you," Andrew returns just as quietly, turning this way and that. Mirroring his movements is a slender boy seemingly no older than sixteen. His face is thin and very pale, but his lips are full and pink, and his hair gleams like spun gold. His eyes shine like emeralds, unlike his sister's sapphire hues.

"You have his eyes," Ava whispers.

Andrew's head turns sharply. "What?"

The woman abruptly steps away, the enthralled look on her face morphing into one of horror, as though she cannot believe what she's just said. Her hands shake noticeably as she lowers them to her sides.

"I...I'm sorry, I didn't..." The normally faint accent is coming out in full force, now; she sounds like the servants, when they're down in their quarters and they think he can't hear them. Andrew listens to her ramble, confusion and curiosity warring for dominance within him.

_Why is my heart beating so fast?_

"I promise you, I meant nothing by it, p-please don't tell your sister - "

"It's okay," Andrew says, mimicking the tone Abigail uses on him when frightened. "Calm down."

He is surprised to see it work; Ava' s shoulders relax slightly, and her breathing evens out. She stares at him, her eyes very wide. Andrew looks into her face and notes for the first time that she is rather old.

Heart still beating rapidly for reasons unknown to him, he asks,

"Whose eyes?"

Ava merely looks at him. Her face is white, her hands trembling violently as she begins smoothing down the dark material of the suit again.

"Must get you ready," she mumbles, the accent still in full force. "Your - your father is coming tomorrow, after all..."

A shaky breath follows that comment. Andrew stares at the terrified woman, a deep frown marring his features. She is ignoring his question, and he only now realizes how much he wants the answer.

Abigail has father's eyes - is supposedly his spitting image, which is why the servants are so subdued during her frequent visits; they dare not show him any disrespect in her presence. As the first of Father's many children, she has inherited nearly all of his features, including his super strength. Andrew has seen her uproot trees one-handed in the few occasions he has been allowed outside to play with her. It frightened him at first, as he does not have the same abilities (much to Abigail's disappointment), but Abigail was always very careful with him. She's his older sister, his _protector_ , as she's told him many times.

But there are many things she does not tell him. Looking at his reflection, into his own viridian gaze, Andrew is suddenly desperate to know from whom he inherited such a color, so different from his father's and sister's sky hues.

From his mother?

Christine never speaks of a mother, though. Only Father. Only Gaia and his unending glory...

 _Whose eyes?_ He wants to ask again. The question surges up his throat like vomit, ready to spill forth -

But Andrew, as always, says nothing.

The woman seems grateful.

\------------------------------------------

That night, Andrew has a nightmare.

It is one of those hazy, disjointed ones that he hates so much, playing behind his eyes like an old film.

 _"Arthur,"_ a familiar voice purrs in his ear. He wants to move away, yell that he is not this 'Arthur' person, as the people in these dreams so like to call him (he is _Andrew_ ), but he has no control over himself in these dreams, and so instead he finds himself turning and leaning into the other male.

 _"What?"_ his mouth moves without his permission, his voice deeper - not his - and coated in that strange accent. Warm skin is sliding against his own, arms around his - bare waist and - bare - legs entwining around his legs.

'Arthur' feels relaxed and sated and safe, but Andrew is shocked and confused and scared, and the fact that he can feel the other's emotions so intensely - as though this is real, or happening, or _happened_ \- serves to frighten him even more.

 _"I love you,"_ the other voice is saying, and goosebumps erupt across his naked skin. Arthur is pleased, very pleased, at the other's words, but he pretends he isn't.

_"...Do you?"_

The other laughs, arms tightening around his waist, and suddenly Andrew is being turned so that he is face to face with the one who haunts these dreams nearly as often as 'Arthur.' He tries to take in the other's visage, only to be immediately drowned by blue eyes -

_(how familiar they are)_

And suddenly Andrew is not in a dimly-lit room smelling of sex and cologne, but in a wide, grassy field, under a vast expanse of endless cerulean. The sweet scent of flowers tickles his nose, a breeze caressing his locks as tenderly as that blue-eyed stranger, and he is struck still at the wild beauty of his surroundings, untouched by men.

_"Arthur!"_

Andrew wants to scowl at the name, but instead his face nearly splits with a grin, and he can only watch helplessly as his arms spread wide, his chest throbbing with the same warmth that fills him when he sees his sister after long months apart.

The little thing that leaps into his arms is not Abigail, but as the child raises his cherubic face, Andrew is struck by the similarities. The child is terribly beautiful, his hair like strands of sunlight as it lifts in the wind, and those...those are _Abigail's_ sky-blue eyes staring up at him adoringly. Only...

There is something else in that gaze, something not at all warm, a brief flicker of another person hiding deep within the mesmerizing blue. Whatever it is, it's cold and ugly, and wariness churns in Andrew's gut the longer he looks on.

But Arthur is the master of this dream, and he does not shy away, does not even appear to notice how the child is looking at him, like a viper calculating how best to devour its prey. He sinks instead to the ground, wild flowers swaying around them as he talks softly to the boy, who is a warm, solid weight in his arms.

 _"How big you've grown,"_ Arthur murmurs, as the boy snuggles into his neck. His hair carries the same woodsy, wild scent of the forest nearby, and Arthur heaves a sigh, gathering him closer with a tenderness born of all the things he will not say.

_I've missed you._

_I love you._

_You're precious to me._

The thoughts are deafening in Andrew's mind, Arthur's euphoria overwhelming him to the point that he is not sure who is who, if they are seperate or the same. Terror swells within him at the potency of the confusion, and as he screams, desperate to awaken, the world flickers, colors bleeding into each other and Alfred stilling like a robot in his arms.

There is a strange shift in which Andrew is catapulted forward through the darkness of his mind - and suddenly _he_ is in control, Arthur flung away to the depths of wherever it is he came from. Andrew blinks, once, twice. He runs a tongue over dry lips that are too thin to be his, too-long fingers burrowing deeper into the warmth of the boy.

 _I need to wake up,_ he thinks wildly, as the child stares into his eyes, unmoving as a doll. Eventually he tilts his head, sky-hues hardening into chips of ice.

 _"You're not Arthur,"_ he accuses, fat fingers digging painfully into Andrew's too-wide shoulder. Above, the sky darkens to crimson. " _Where is he?"_

_"He's not here anymore," Andrew blurts. "I-"_

_"Imposter,"_ the child hisses, angelic face contorting into something decidedly demonic.  _"Liar."_

Andrew opens his mouth to defend himself, when it begins to rain. Big red droplets fall onto them, staining the white gown the boy wears, but he does not even appear to notice. Then the drizzle becomes a downpour. As their surroundings are dyed crimson, the child's hands wind around Andrew's throat. It shouldn't be possible - were the boy's fingers this calloused, this _long_ , a moment ago? - but Andrew can't breathe, anyway, and though his air supply has been cut off it's as though he's incapable of struggling.

 _"Liar, liar, liar..."_ the child whispers, crushing the bones in his neck. " _I want Arthur; not you. You aren't supposed to exist."_

That is the last thing Andrew hears before he is thrust back into consciousness. The words ring in his ears like an alarm as he shoots up into a sitting position, rivulets of sweat running down his face. He wipes frantically at his forehead, behind which is spiking agony.

 _Wasn't real,_ he tells himself, hunched over. _Wasn't real..._

It felt real, though. Too real. He's had these dreams since he was small, but never were they so vivid as this one - that angelic child with the eyes of a demon crushing his windpipe as though it were _nothing..._

Andrew touches his neck. His throat is so dry, and his head throbs so awfully...

A shudder wracks him, and he looks toward the windows. It's still dark outside...

_"Andrew."_

Andrew stills. His head turns, as though in slow motion, towards the source of the voice, low and silken and - familiar.

His first thought, upon registering the one sitting next to his bed, is, irrationally, Abigail. They have the same wheat-colored hair, the same full lips and the same straight nose, the same smile. The exact same eyes.

But this intruder is unmistakably male, broader and bigger, his hair shorter, though it is no less golden. And this one's smile is sharper - his eyes, though beautiful, like chips of ice as they bore into his -

Andrew drops his eyes immediately. Blood roars in his ears.

_It can't be, it can't be, I'm still dreaming -_

The man hums, and Andrew quails under the force of his presence, paralyzed by the power radiating off his form in waves too strong to be imagined. The pounding in his head reaches a crescendo as a calloused hand cups his cheek in a shockingly familiar touch, tilting his head upwards until Andrew has no choice but to lock eyes once more with -

 _"Father,"_ he breathes, trembling while his progenitor studies him. Andrew shakes uncontrollably as the entirety of himself is exposed to the one who created him, the bond that links them ripping open for - for the first time, his soul rising and expanding and _burning, burning, burning,_ until he is soaring with euphoria and love

_and hate hate hate_

"So it is as I thought," Gaia murmurs, thumb swiping just under Andrew's eye. "He's tainted you...when you are perfect in all other ways..."

Andrew is too enraptured - too overwhelmed by his Father's presence and touch and _magnificence_ \- to really register the words. He leans into his creator's caress, his heart singing.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Gaia sighs. "Stubborn old fool. Never did know when to let go. But what to do with you...?"

Andrew's euphoria lessens abruptly as Gaia's hand lowers from his face to his throat - fingers wrapping around his neck and _squeezing_. He gasps, his own hands raising to claw at the one that even now, choking him, sends electricity coursing through his soul in thrilling waves.

Andrew looks into Gaia's eyes, his own bulging from their sockets.

"Fa...ther...?"

"Such a shame," Gaia whispers. "What will it take to finally wipe you off the face of the Earth, Artie? Was cutting out your heart not permanent enough?"

Andrew says nothing - understands nothing - registers nothing, but the fact that the father he has worshipped for all of his existence is currently strangling him. He can't breathe, the hands are tightening - _what has he done?_

A part of him notes the irony of this situation, being choked to death by a blue-eyed angel, but he can't remember exactly how it's ironic. The dream has already slipped from his memory, as the life is slipping from his body, now.

Tears run hotly down his cheeks. He doesn't _understand._

And then the hand is gone. Andrew sucks in blessed oxygen, his body sagging forward into the one who almost murdered him, his head swimming and his body wracked with shudders. He feels himself being pulled forward until he is half in Gaia's lap, but he does not have the strength to shrink away, unconsciousness creeping in on him as Gaia's chin rests atop his head, his muscled arms wrapping around Andrew like steel.

Andrew is lost, until he sees the door to his bedroom swing open, revealing Abigail. She is as white as her sleeping gown.

"Father," she says softly. Through the haze settling over him, Andrew notes the tone she has taken. He has never heard his sister sound so meek. "You...we weren't expecting you until tomorrow - "

"You lied to me, Abigail." Gaia says abruptly. The words are frost. "I'm disappointed in you."

Abigail flinches. "F-Father...I..."

"We will talk later," Gaia interrupts coolly. His hand pets Andrew's hair almost absently. "Leave."

Abigail doesn't move. Her eyes are darting wildly between Andrew and their father. He senses her reaching out through their bond, trying to connect, but Andrew cannot muster the strength to meet her. His soul burns within him.

Abigail seems to understand the implications of this, and her mouth falls open. Tears fill her eyes.

"No," she says tremulously. "Father - "

"Abigail," Gaia murmurs. He sounds like he did just now, when he was killing Andrew. "That was not a request."

Abigail's hands clench into shaking fists. "If I leave, will you kill him?"

Gaia doesn't deny it. There is a brief, shocked silence. Abigail bursts into tears.

"You _can't!"_ she says shrilly. He has never heard her sound so frightened, and it frightens him in turn. Andrew tries to raise his head, but Gaia pushes him back down against his collarbone.

"I can," he says evenly. "As you should've. I put my faith in you, Abigail, and you have failed me. _Defied_ me. I should destroy you along with him."

Abigail inhales sharply at that, while Andrew's own breath hitches. Her shoulders shake, and she hangs her head for a moment. At last, his sister comes to their creator's side, and sinks to her knees.

"Do what you have to," she begs. "But not to Andrew. He didn't do anything. He's _yours_ , Father, he is, only yours - "

"Yet his mind is closed to me," Gaia says. "And he has **_his_** eyes."

 _Whose eyes?_ Andrew wonders frantically, as darkness closes in on him. Pain rips through his chest. Abigail -  was supposed to kill him? Is this what she was hiding from him? Was this why she looked so scared?

" _You aren't supposed to exist."_

 _"Please,_ Father," Abigail sobs, looking up at him. "If you could just - just give him a chance. _Please_. You can't kill him, he's my little brother, you _can't - !"_

Gaia watches her weep, unmoved.

"Why can't I?"

"Because I will **_never_** forgive you!" Abigail bursts out. "I will never forgive you _, I_ _will never forgive you,_ you'll have to kill me _next - !_ "

Gaia raises his hand, silencing her.

They stare at each other, stony father and weeping daughter. The resemblance between them is truly eerie. And, after an eternity of silence:

"Fine," Gaia sighs. He pushes Andrew away from him and back onto the bed, where he plops backwards like a dead weight. His throat burns. He sees Abigail gasp sharply, her eyes huge as they rest on his neck. Andrew can only imagine the bruises, there.

"I will spare him," Gaia continues softly. "For now. But if he takes advantage of my kindness at any point - if he betrays me, or defies me, as you have - I will _crush_ him without mercy, Abigail. I will destroy him, body and soul."

"I understand, Father," Abigail promises, her chin quivering. "Thank you, _thank you - "_

He rises, and so does she, embracing him tightly with a choked whimper. 

Gaia embraces her back, his head resting atop hers, while his eyes pierce Andrew's, who is barely clinging to consciousness. Water, he needs _water..._

"Do _you_ understand?" he asks.

Andrew just barely manages a nod.

Gaia considers him for a moment, silent, before patting Abigail on the back.

"Good," he murmurs, stepping away from her. "You can go, Abigail. Wait for me in my office. We will discuss your punishment, there."

Abigail tenses. Giving a subdued nod, she sends Andrew one last look, and obeys.

Now they are alone again, and Andrew stares up at Gaia, wondering at the love that swelled so magnificently within him earlier at the sight of this man.

No. Not man.

 _We_   _are not people. This one, least of all._

Gaia leans over him, large hand brushing his throat in the gentlest of warnings. Andrew hates the euphoria that the mere brush of his fingers elicits, sweeping through him in a sickening wave. There are so many things he doesn't understand, and this is one of them, but his thoughts are too chaotic to linger on any one thing.

 _Water_.

"Fortunately for you, I love my daughter," Gaia whispers, warm breath washing over him. "And you will wake up tomorrow, alive and well, because _she_ loves _you."_

The hand rises, brushing tenderly along his jaw before threading through his hair in a painful grip.

"Be grateful, Andrew. Don't cross me. Whatever remnant of **_him_** is left in you - you had better squash it quick, or else _I_ will squash _you_. It will be painful. It will be slow. And Abigail will not save you a second time. This is your one warning."

Gaia releases him, some of the ice melting from his expression. He pats Andrew's cheek with mock affection.

"Be a good son," he says cheerfully, "and I'll be a good father. Okay?"

Andrew looks up at him mutely, his eyes white-ringed. 

Gaia seems to take that for acceptance. His own eyes soften. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his perfectly-tailored suit, he steps back.

"Don't make me kill you, Andrew. It really would be a shame."

With that, he makes to leave, only to pause in the doorway. His stare is lingering and sharp. The boy shrinks under it, his body trembling. 

"I'll have a servant bring you some water," Gaia promises, and is gone.

Andrew listens until the sounds of his footsteps recede, before releasing a sob. He doesn't sleep again, that night. 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked!


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